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It starts small.
It was Shane’s idea, actually, for his mom to step in as Ilya’s manager. Ilya had spent most of his career either sending money off to his family or collecting fancy cars. He didn’t have anyone managing his finances, and the manager he did have didn’t put much effort into getting Ilya any steady sponsorships.
The second they realized that he didn’t even have a translator for all of his legal documents and contracts, Shane knew that there would be no stopping the firestorm that was his mom.
Yuna Hollander ran a tight ship, she’d had Shane’s entire life planned down to the smallest detail since he first showed interest in hockey, and Ilya needed someone like that to make sure he still had money of his own after he retired.
Also, Shane suspected that Ilya would like the single-minded focus his mom would bring to sorting out his affairs. Ilya craved feeling cared for, and Yuna cared more than anyone Shane’s ever met.
It didn’t take long before Yuna had gotten Ilya set up with Shane’s own financial advisor who efficiently set up savings and investments and loose budgets that Ilya had promised to stick to. Then, she gently cut ties with a couple of the sponsorships that she felt didn’t fit Ilya, and reached out to some brands who were more than eager to have Ilya Rozanov promoting them.
Ilya takes to all of it like a fish to water, smiling and shaking hands and making the sponsors laugh with ease. He’s so charming and everyone clearly loves him.
Yuna is delighted.
“Ferrari has officially signed their end of the contract Ilya. Congratulations!” She says one night over dinner. Everyone immediately burst into cheers, and Yuna turned to Shane, “You could learn a thing or two about sweet-talking from Ilya, sweetheart. I don’t think we’ve ever signed a sponsorship contract this fast, have we?”
The way she says it makes something tighten a bit in Shane’s chest, even though he logically knows it’s just motherly teasing, but then he looks over at Ilya who’s just beaming with pride, and a small grin tugs at the corners of his lips. “No, I don’t think we have. Ilya just has that effect on people though, I guess.”
And it’s true. Ilya might have a reputation for being an asshole on the ice, but he always seems to know what to say to get people to like him. His off-ice reputation has shifted in the past couple of years, and Shane is really proud of him. He makes jokes and gives out compliments like they’re nothing, like he’s not constantly grasping for the right thing to say like Shane is.
Shane has long since accepted that he’s not very good with people. His mom handles a lot of the talking and his reputation as Canada’s awkward but earnest golden boy of hockey does the rest. Most of his commercials consist of him trying to get his smile to sit naturally on his face while everyone runs around him, adjusting lights and spraying him with water and generally making his one task impossibly difficult.
He comes home from those shoots exhausted.
Ilya does not. Ilya comes home with a bounce in his step and stories about all the people he talked to while he was there.
Shane isn’t upset with Ilya about this by any means, but he can’t help but feel like it’s a little unfair.
“Ilya, I love you,” Yuna says, raising her glass to him in a mini salute. “Thank you for making my job easier, unlike someone else at this table.”
It’s obvious that she’s joking. There’s a smile on her face and her eyes are dancing as she reaches over to nudge his dad with her elbow.
Ilya leans forward with a mischievous grin, “It is the least I can do, Yuna. I take my role as your favourite son very seriously.”
“And boy do I appreciate it.”
The joke’s been made before. It’s Yuna’s way of making sure that Ilya feels welcome in their family, and it’s Ilya’s way of pushing Shane’s buttons whenever he has the opportunity.
Usually, something warm unfurls in his chest, and Shane revels in the joy of being part of this family.
Now, for some reason, Shane fixes his smile in place and feels a little empty, watching his mom and his husband connect in a way that he could never really manage.
That’s how it starts.
The next time Shane feels like something’s off, it’s with his dad.
He and Ilya are visiting his parents again, curled up on the couch and watching hockey highlights at Shane’s insistence. Yuna’s taking the time to respond to some emails while David’s out in the driveway, allegedly tinkering with his car.
“Hey, Ilya?” Scratch that, David was right here in the living room, dead set on giving Shane a premature heart attack. “You know a lot about cars, right? Do you think you could come help me out with this?”
The moment Ilya heard the word cars he was off the couch and practically sprinting over to stand in front of David.
“Yes I know cars. What do you need?” Ilya trailed after David as they exited the house, “Oil change? Tire change? You want to improve power so you leave everyone in your dust? I can help with anything, just say the word.”
They drift out of hearing range, but Shane can imagine Ilya’s animated gesturing and his dad’s fond smile. Ilya knows almost anything there is to know about any car, and Shane is more than happy to listen to him ramble on about the newest addition to his collection and how upkeep is going.
His dad had always taken an interest in cars, and he’d mentioned to Shane that he was thinking about buying an old car, gutting it, and refurbishing it on his own. It’s supposed to be a surprise for Ilya, a thing that they have in common and can work on together.
God, Shane hopes that that’s what this is about, he’s always been terrible at keeping secrets from Ilya, and this one is no different.
He heaves himself up from his spot on the couch, casting a mournful glance back at the TV before moving towards the front door so that he can observe the interaction.
What Shane sees immediately warms his heart; his dad is standing a few steps back with an easy grin on his face while Ilya enthusiastically examines the new car, lit up and animated in a way that reminds Shane how easy it was to fall in love with this man.
Ilya’s talking at a mile a minute, throwing out words like horsepower and torque and kickdown that Shane recognizes but doesn’t fully understand the meaning of, and his dad is miraculously keeping up, answering all of Ilya’s questions while they plan what modifications they want to make. Ilya keeps pushing for something called NOS that has his dad laughing.
“It’s nice talking about this stuff to someone who likes it as much as I do,” David says. “Don’t get me wrong, I love Shane more than life itself, but getting him to pay attention to anything other than hockey has been a lost cause since the moment he picked up a stick.”
Ilya laughs, sending Shane a teasing look as he says, “Oh, I know it. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who can name the stats for everyone in the league as quickly as Shane can. Or at all.”
“He’s a special kid, alright.” Shane returns his dad’s warm smile with a dry one of his own, backing back into the house when they turn back to their new project.
Something that feels a little too close to guilt twists in his chest when Shane settles back down to half-heartedly watch the rest of the highlights. It’s not that Shane didn’t want to like the same things as his dad, he’d literally played hockey for McGill, so they had hockey in common!
But his dad also liked cars, and watching other sports like baseball, and going out golfing occasionally. All things that Shane had really tried to get into, but had never felt that spark of interest that only hockey had managed to fan into a blazing fire.
Not everyone wanted to talk about the same, singular thing all the time.
He was glad that his dad and Ilya had each other now, though. His dad finally had a son he could talk about cars and other stuff with, and Ilya had the safe, caring paternal figure he’d been lacking his whole life.
It was incredible how quickly they’d bonded, and Shane couldn’t be happier for the both of them.
So it didn’t matter that sometimes, when his dad’s face lit up a little more when he spotted Ilya, Shane felt like his dad had finally gotten the son he’d always hoped for in Shane. It didn’t matter that sometimes they vanished for hours at a time, leaving him on his own when they visited because he doesn’t care about cars anyway, right Shane?
What mattered was that his dad was happy, bonding with Ilya over things he was never able to bond over with Shane.
What mattered more was the way Ilya always returned from these hangouts lighter, his eyes sparkling in a way that made him seem younger than he was. Shane could see the boy who’d craved a connection with his father finally getting the care and attention he’d always deserved, and so it didn’t matter that Shane sometimes felt a little left behind. A little on the outside even in his own family.
Cars were never really his thing anyway.
For Shane, being the best was something to be expected, not celebrated.
He knows that his parents are proud of him, but it’s a quiet sort of pride. One that’s showed in an approving nod or a brief hug before he’s ushered on to the next bigger, better thing. It wasn’t even something that had ever really upset him, it was just how things were.
Shane’s not sure what to do with the realization that they didn’t have to be.
The cheering is reserved for the Stanley cup. The loud pride is special in that way. Coveted. Something for Shane to strive for and revel in when he finally achieves it.
It's not even just with hockey. When he was in school, straight As were the norm and anything less earned him a softly disappointed stare and a talk on how he could do better next time.
Occasionally, when Shane did an especially good job, his dad would clap him on the shoulder with a grin on his face, and his mom would make his favourite meal. He didn’t hold anything against his parents, because they just wanted him to be the best he could be. And he was.
Shane learned to excel at everything. Some things, like hockey, he had a natural talent for that he honed through discipline and extra hours on the rink. Other things, like math, he could wrap his head around only after meticulously completing every practice question in the textbook, but he always figured it out.
If, after a while, he was still bad at something, he didn’t do it. That way, nobody — including himself — had to deal with the disappointment that came from his continued failure.
He had a system, and the system worked. The system turned him into the success everyone expected him to be.
The system earned him the quiet approval of his parents.
Ilya didn’t have a system. Apparently, he didn’t need one.
The first time Ilya had cooked his favourite Russian dish for the Hollanders, he’d gotten a little choked up describing how his mother had let Ilya sit on the counter as she made it, asking him to taste it every step of the way as her little sous-chef. It was one of Ilya’s favourite memories of his mother, and one that squeezed at Shane’s heart every time he talked about it.
It seemed to be the easiest thing in the world for his mom to get up from her seat, look Ilya right in the eye, and say, “She would’ve been so proud of the man you have become. I am proud of the man you have become, Ilya.”
It didn’t make sense. Of course, Shane was proud of Ilya. The glow was an ever-present warmth in his chest every time Ilya’s eyes crinkled when he smile.
But they didn’t just say that. “I’m proud of you” was reserved for Stanley Cups and MVP awards, not dinner on a regular Friday night.
Then, his dad leaned forward and said, “We’re all proud of you, Ilya,” and Shane realized that maybe he just had never done something outside of hockey to warrant being proud of. The thought hit him like a punch to the gut, but it was a feeling he’d gotten used to shoving down, so he’d kissed his husband on the cheek and hoped that the tightness in his jaw came across as sympathy rather than self-pity.
The more he thought about it, the more it started to make sense. The truth was, Shane wasn’t much of anything outside of hockey. He’d shaped his entire personality, his entire life, around the sport. From his diet and exercise routine, to the rehearsed chirps on the ice, to the precise curve of his smile in front of the cameras.
Most of the time he spent with his mom revolved around sponsorships and handling the press; Shane was nervous to try and recall the last time he’d talked to his mom about something non-hockey related for more than ten minutes because he might come up empty.
Then there was his dad, whom he so rarely saw without his mom there. He was always content to let her drive the conversation, and the time that Shane did spend with him ended up trailing into comfortable silence more often than not.
Not that he didn’t appreciate that! Sometimes it was nice to spend time with people without the expectation of carrying a conversation, but Shane knows that his dad wishes that Shane would put in more of an effort to meet him in the middle. His dad loves hockey, but it doesn’t define him the way it does Shane, and therein lies the distance between them.
When Shane can no longer keep up with the younger players, when his body can no longer withstand the strain and he’s forced to retire, how is he expected to be anything? How is he supposed to connect with the people around him when he’s nothing more than a shell emptied of purpose?
Ilya will never have this problem, he realized. Ilya, who had interests and a personality and a life outside of hockey. Ilya, who connected with everyone in a way that Shane couldn’t understand and always envied. Ilya, who loved to sing and dance around the house and didn’t let the fact that he was good-but-not-great stop him.
Ilya, who Shane’s parents had taken to calling their favourite son in a way that had him frantically scrambling to convince himself that they were just joking, that his parents still loved him the way they always had.
Yuna and David deserved a son like Ilya, someone who effortlessly made their lives easier. Someone so unlike Shane who needed his mom to handle most of his business decisions, who needed to put all his effort into talking about something other than hockey and occasionally architecture, who wanted so badly to be normal but still hadn’t figured it out, even in his late twenties.
He loved his parents, and he loved his husband, so maybe he just needed to accept that this was something he’d live on the outskirts of as well.
This is why hockey is so important. It’s the string that so tenuously binds him to the people he loves most in the world. Without it, he’s nothing, and who would want him then?
Who would love Shane Hollander, Canada’s golden boy and generational talent, when he turned out to be just Shane?
God, he wished that he didn’t have to be— “Shane?”
It would be so much easier if he could just be— “Shane!”
A touch on his shoulder ripped him from his thoughts. Ilya was there, in their shared gym, staring at him with his brows drawn together and had probably been calling his name for a while with no response.
Shane blinked, and awareness of his body came flooding back to him. Running on the treadmill for he doesn’t even know how long, face red and slicked with sweat and possibly tears while his lungs and legs screamed at him in tandem, each breath more strained than the last.
“Why don’t we slow down, lyubimyy?” Ilya asked him softly. He frowned slightly when Shane shook his head, arms refusing to heed his brain’s instructions. No matter how much it hurt, all Shane wanted was to run faster, work harder, push his body to the brink and then keep fucking going.
Still, he couldn’t bring himself to protest when Ilya changed the settings of the treadmill himself, staring resolutely forward as he adjusted to slower and slower speeds. Part of him wanted to cry out, push Ilya away and start running again.
The other part, the part that aches and wants and needs to be cared for, wins out. Shane lets Ilya guide him off the treadmill, lets Ilya hold his weight when his legs give out, lets Ilya rub a soothing hand up and down his spine when Shane chokes on air, sucking in hacking breaths because he pushed too much, too far, and it still wasn’t enough.
But still, Ilya is there, and he’s warm and safe even though Shane can feel the worry radiating off of him. He doesn’t push Shane for answers, just holds him until he stops trembling and then whispers, “Bath?”
It’s all Shane can to do manage a jerky nod against Ilya’s chest, but apparently that’s all his husband needs to pick him up—something that never fails to stir a giddiness within him even after all these years—and carry him to their bathroom.
Ilya makes sure that the lights are dim before he turns them on, and the pulsing in his head lessens to a more manageable degree. It’s more of a subtle buzz than a gong clanging inside his skull now, which is a relief.
Of course, Ilya knows exactly what to do. He knows everything about Shane. It was a little delusional of him to think he’d be able to keep anything from his husband, but that had never stopped Shane from trying.
Maybe it was time to stop trying.
He keeps waiting for Ilya to ask, to pull at his walls, to take the opportunity to get to the bottom of why Shane’s been acting weird these past few months. Shane’s not so oblivious as to think he hasn’t been acting weird even before taking into account how freakishly perceptive Ilya manages to be.
But he doesn’t. Ilya doesn’t say anything at all as he carefully undresses Shane, pressing gentle kisses to his tight shoulders and aching knees, eking out some of the pain that’s made itself a stubborn home in his body. He steps into the bath with Shane, humming approvingly when Shane leans back into his chest without being prompted.
Ilya is solid against his back, supporting Shane and keeping his head above the water, both physically and metaphorically, with an ease that almost brings him back to tears. He doesn’t ask Shane to talk or make any decisions, just steadily works the shampoo through his hair before rinsing it out.
Then he does it again, because he knows that Shane only feels truly clean if he can wash his hair twice.
The water is warm against his skin, Ilya’s fingers soothing against his scalp, and Shane can feel his body slowly letting go of the panic that’s been building up inside of him, pushing and expanding until Shane felt like he was going to pop.
And maybe he did. Maybe, instead of spilling over and drowning everyone else with his hurt and insecurity, he bled internally. The bruises appearing on his body, dark and painful, with no discernable cause because they’re coming from inside him. The thick, viscous pain pouring out of his heart and yet contained by his skin, filling him up until he no longer has space to exist inside his own body.
The ache has become him.
Ilya has a particular skill for noticing when Shane’s thoughts veer into dangerous territory, and this time is no different. He rests his forehead on the nape of Shane’s neck, lowly humming a Russian lullaby he once told Shane that his mom would sing when the nightmares kept him from sleep. The vibrations travel through him, grounding Shane back in reality, giving him something to hold on to.
“Good,” Ilya murmurs after a while, when Shane’s thoughts have calmed and the water has cooled. “We are going to get up and dry off now, okay?”
He waits until Shane manages a nod before he starts to stand, easing Shane up with him. They both step out of the bath, and Ilya makes sure that Shane’s legs are steady beneath him before he reaches for the soft towels that Shane meticulously picked out to highlight the slate blue undertone in the countertops.
When he’s dry, Ilya places a flat, warm palm on his back and directs him to the bedroom where he dresses Shane with the same reverence he employed when undressing him. Ilya makes sure that his dry shirt doesn’t touch his damp hair and that the seams of his socks rest where they’re supposed to.
Shane drifts for a little bit, but when he refocuses, Ilya’s hand is interlocked with his and they’re walking towards the living room. Ilya sits him down on the couch and goes to open the fridge, pulling out one of Shane’s pre-made safe meals.
Even before Ilya is back in front of him, Shane can feel himself pulling a face at the thought of eating, even though all he’s managed to force down today is half a protein smoothie.
“Do not do that,” Ilya says. It’s quiet, but Shane can hear the pleading tone that slips through the cracks in his voice. “You haven’t been eating well. Maybe for weeks. Not enough to protect your body from what you have been putting it through. You’re punishing yourself, and it hurts watching it and not knowing why.”
Shane stays silent, eyes glued to Ilya’s hands methodically removing the lid from the container. Ilya offers the dish to him, and Shane realizes that he is so hungry, the wave of want crashes into him with dizzying force, and yet he doesn’t reach out.
Denial is like a second skin to him; a size too small but much too familiar to want to give up.
“Eat, Shane.” Shane’s gaze flickers back up to Ilya’s face. “Please.”
No matter how strong Ilya tries to be, Shane can hear the way his voice breaks on the word, and something inside him crumbles. One word, and Shane finds that he just doesn’t have the strength to fight it anymore, so he nods.
The small, relieved grin that breaks across Ilya’s face is like a balm to Shane’s aching heart, and he knows that he made the right decision. They sit there in comfortable silence for a while as Ilya insists on slowly feeding Shane his meal, briefly standing up to fill his favourite glass with water just as Shane starts getting thirsty.
It’s the small moments like this that remind Shane how loved he is, and he can’t remember why he decided to keep everything inside instead of sharing it with the man he loves most in the world.
Ilya doesn’t say anything when the tears start rolling down his face, he simply places what remains of the food off to the side and cradles Shane’s cheeks with his palms. They stay like that for a little while, Shane letting himself cry while Ilya tenderly wipes his tears away with his thumbs and drawing Shane in close, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips before tucking him into his chest.
It’s no secret to Ilya that Shane likes feeling small sometimes. He presses himself into tight spaces so that something else can bear the weight of holding him together, but he’s always preferred Ilya’s arms to anything else. Shane never feels safer than he does when Ilya wraps himself around him, protecting him from the outside world until Shane feels ready to face it again.
Ever since Ilya, Shane’s found it easier to face the world, knowing that he’ll never be facing it alone.
But he can’t hide forever, not from this, so Shane gathers himself together and slowly draws away from the warmthsafetycomfort that is his husband, and does his best to meet his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” is, unsurprisingly, the first thing out of his mouth.
Ilya is already shaking his head, smoothing his hands across his shoulders and down his arms, gripping firmly around Shane’s elbows. “Do not apologize,” he says before Shane can continue. “Please, just talk to me. Let me help.”
And there’s something in the way that Ilya’s words feel like permission that breaks down that final wall holding everything inside.
Even though Shane feels like he can’t possibly cry any more, his eyes start burning in that telltale way that always precedes tears and promises a painful headache later. “I just- I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he says helplessly. “I feel like, maybe, my parents love you more than they love me. Like, sometimes they wish they’d had you instead of me.”
He can see the way Ilya’s expression pinches, contorting into something pained and deeply sad, and Shane scrambles to explain himself.
“I mean- I know they love me. Obviously, they love me. All they’ve ever wanted is what’s best for me.” Shane knows that he sounds desperate, but he can’t really bring himself to care because he is desperate. Desperate for Ilya to understand him. Desperate for what he’s saying to be true. Desperate to get this aching, ugly weight off his chest after so many years of keeping it wrapped up tight. “And I’m so happy that they love you. You’ve always deserved a family that loves you, Ilya, and it means the world to me that I’ve been able to provide that for you.”
“But it’s always been so hard for me,” Shane continues. “My whole life, I’ve never been able to figure out how to be easy; how to live up to everyone’s expectations of me. It’s like everyone else was born with a manual on how to be normal and liked, and I just had to figure it out on my own. And I was never good at it.”
Shane can’t sit still any longer and stands up from the couch, pacing back and forth while running his fingers through his hair, tugging at the roots in an attempt to ground himself. The words keep tumbling out of him, like now that the dam has broken he has no chance on putting the cap back on the feelings that have finally overflowed.
“I didn’t make real friends. I freaked out in public for no reason. I couldn’t understand how to be normal, and my parents didn’t understand how I couldn’t understand. They never said anything, though, so I just figured out all these invisible rules that everyone but me seemed to just fucking know all on my own. And they always kept fucking changing!” His breath keeps picking up, voice creeping higher in pitch as his tongue trips over itself trying to get everything out. “I can’t talk to people normally, my mom has to handle all my business like I’m fucking five, and I can’t make myself care about the shit other people care about, so my dad and I barely ever talk!”
Shane can’t help it, he brings the knuckle of his thumb up to his mouth and bites, breaking the skin and sighing in relief as the pain brings him back to his body. Before he can try it again, Ilya is up and in front of him, tugging his hands away from his mouth and holding them hostage against Ilya’s chest despite Shane’s half-hearted struggles.
“No hurting yourself, malysh, you know this.” Ilya dips his head, trying to meet Shane’s eyes, but Shane doesn't think he could bear to see the inevitably disappointed or disgusted expression on his face.
One of Ilya’s hands loosens its grip, coming up to brush against Shane’s cheek, swiping gently under his eye, and Shane can’t help but lean into the touch. They stand there, silently, Ilya breathing in a way that Shane recognizes as purposeful and he almost doesn’t want to match it out of spite.
He does anyway.
Slowly, reluctantly, Shane pries his eyes open, sore and salty and undoubtedly red from all the crying he’s been doing, bracing himself for the gut punch of Ilya’s disapproval.
What he finds is almost worse. Shane’s known Ilya for over a decade, knows how to pick apart the emotions that flicker across his face better than anyone else in the world. It’s how he can see the heartbreak in the corners of his eyes, the guilt in the tightness of his jaw, the understanding in the curve of his eyebrows, and the overwhelming love that encompasses all of it.
Shane doesn’t want Ilya to understand. He wants to pull his walls back up, slip back under the mask of golden boy Shane Hollander, the hockey robot who doesn’t let the chirps affect him and has the highest game IQ in the league, where it’s safe and nothing can hurt him.
And Ilya would let him, for a little while. He’d bring Shane’s walls back down, brick by brick, and then he’d cradle Shane’s raw, bleeding heart in his callused hands like it’s Ilya’s most precious, treasured possession.
It truly isn’t a matter of if Shane confides in Ilya, but when. He could wrap it back up, pretend nothing’s wrong for days or weeks or months, hollowing himself out to make room for all of the hurt.
“They love you so much,” Shane croaks out, because he’s so tired of keeping everything in. “You make things easier on them. You know how to talk to all the sponsors, you can bond with my dad over cars and hold a conversation without bringing everything back to hockey, they tell you that they’re proud of you—” Shane’s voice breaks on these words because, despite everything, this is what manages to hurt the most.
When he gets himself back under control, he continues, “And I know that my parents love me. But… you’re their favourite. They say it every time they see you. Every time I don’t live up to who they want me to be. You’re the son they deserve, and I’m just the one they got stuck with.”
Shane’s hands are still resting on Ilya’s chest, which means he feels the stutter in his breathing that’s always followed by tears.
When the first tear slips out, Shane is slammed by a wave of guilt. Why the fuck did he say all of that? Ilya spent his childhood in cold, unforgiving Russia, bound to his abusive family and grieving a mother that left him to that fate. He more than deserves a warm, loving family who says that they’re proud of him and smiles when he enters a room.
God, only Shane could be so selfish. Nobody else could see their husband finally receiving all the love he’s missed out on and find a way to let it cleave his heart in two.
I’m sorry, he thinks desperately. Please believe me, Ilya, I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, please-
“Please. ‘M sorry- sorry. Sorry, ‘m so sorry, Ilya-” Shane’s not sure when his pleading escaped the confines of his mind, only that now he’s begging Ilya for absolution, praying that he’ll forgive Shane for the sin of wanting. Wanting to fit in. Wanting to be loved. Wanting wanting wanting.
Shane Hollander doesn’t get to want. Shane Hollander takes what he’s given and he doesn’t complain when the gaping cavern in his chest only grows.
“Shh, it’s okay, Shane. No sorries. You have nothing to be sorry for, moya lyubov,” Ilya soothes. He’s guiding Shane’s face to his neck and Shane gratefully takes the opportunity to hide. Ilya’s hands are in Shane’s hair, steadily combing through the mess as he rocks Shane side to side, effortlessly bringing him down from a panic attack.
“Things will be okay,” he continues, voice low and steady. “You are Shane Hollander, second-best hockey player in the entire world. You are married to first-best hockey player. Together, we can beat anything. Even your brain.”
It’s a nice sentiment, one that would be reassuring in almost any other situation, but now it only serves to remind Shane of the other factor contributing to his breakdown.
Strangely enough, it doesn’t send him spiraling again. Maybe Shane’s just so wrung dry, so exhausted down to his very bones, but an uncanny calm settles over him instead.
“What about when I’m not?” The words are muttered against Ilya’s skin, but Shane knows that he heard him loud and clear when he stills.
Ilya doesn’t try to pull away, which Shane appreciates, but he does sit them back down on the couch, arranging them so they’re as close as possible. Once they’re settled, that’s when he leans back, just slightly, to look Shane in the eye. “What are you talking about?”
They both know what he’s talking about. Shane’s gone to great lengths not to think about it, let alone put actual words to the concept. It shows in Ilya’s carefully concealed surprise, the way his eyes flicker warily across Shane’s face.
And Shane’s already said so much today, has already shown Ilya his twisted, trembling insides. Why not flay himself open? Why not crack his ribs apart and turn his heart inside-out?
Shane Hollander, best player in the league no matter what Ilya Rozanov has to say about it, has never done things by halves.
“What about when I- when I retire?” Shane has to force the word out, around the lump in his through and out into the world where it exists. “I’m not like you, Ilya. I’m nothing without hockey. It’s who I’ve been my entire life. Shane Hollander the hockey player. The only time my parents have ever told me they’re proud of me is when I won the Stanley Cup. My mom is my manager, I don’t remember the last thing I talked to her, to either of my parents, about something outside of hockey.”
There are no more tears, Shane’s voice doesn’t waver, this is just the truth: cold, hard, and inevitable.
Shane takes in a stabilizing breath. “I’ve never done anything outside of hockey that’s worthy of being proud of. I’ve never done anything outside of hockey period. Canada’s Shane Hollander. That’s the person my parents are proud of, that’s the person you fell in love with.” And that’s the crux of the matter, isn’t it? Ilya’s never known a Shane outside of hockey. Who’s to say he’d even want him when it’s all over? “Without hockey, what’s even the point of me?”
And there it is. Every last broken piece of him, on display for Ilya to see.
“Okay,” Shane whispers when the silence starts to get to him, which can’t be more than three seconds after he’s finished speaking, “I’m done.”
Ilya’s arms tighten minutely around him in acknowledgement. “Yes,” he says thoughtfully. “And now it is my turn.”
Before saying anything, Ilya takes the opportunity to maneuver them again, something that’s happened so many times tonight that Shane wonders if Ilya’s forgotten that he can move on his own. This time, Shane finds himself in a sitting position, Ilya on his lap and making sure that Shane’s back is pressed securely against the cushions.
Shane knows this position. This is where they always end up when Ilya thinks that Shane’s going to try and run away from whatever he has to say.
To be fair to Ilya, he hasn’t even said anything and Shane’s feeling the itch to be literally anywhere but here. The sun’s going down, but a nice, long hike to the middle of the forest isn’t sounding too bad right now.
Or maybe to the bottom of the lake.
Shane’s undecided at the moment.
“Solnyshko,” Ilya says with a smirk that lets Shane know that he’s well aware of every thought that was just running through his head.
Shane sighs, forcing himself to let go of some of the tension. “Yes, Ilyusha, I’m listening.”
It’s a dirty trick, one that Shane doesn’t regret as he watches the blush creep up Ilya’s neck. He watches semi-smugly as his husband blinks a few times before fixing him with a stern look.
“Just for that, I’m going to say even more nice things about you.” Ilya leaned in close, determination lining his face. “By the time I’m done with you, you’re going to be redder than a tomato, moy pomidor.”
That was… scarier than it probably should’ve been.
Something must’ve shifted in his face, because Ilya softened, pressing a kiss between Shane’s eyebrows. “You have been so good for me, I know that this is hard for you, but I need you to be good just a little longer, yes?”
And that’s also a dirty trick, but Shane can’t deny that it works, and he lets out a long, defeated breath, nodding.
“Shane… I love you so much. More than I know what to do with,” Ilya says. No matter how many times Shane hears it, it never fails to bring a hopeless smile to his face.
“I love you too,” Shane says before Ilya can really get going. “Ya tebya lyublyu.”
If he doesn’t say it now, he’s not sure when he’ll get the chance. No matter how upset Shane is, or how badly he spirals, the one certainty in his life is that he loves Ilya Rozanov, and he has to make sure that his husband knows that.
Ilya raises an eyebrow at the interruption, but seems more than willing to let it slide. Likely because he can sense how badly Shane needed to say it.
“Yes, moya lyubov, I know.” This time, when Ilya looks at him, the expression on his face is nothing short of adoration. “You have so much love in your heart. For me. For your family. For your friends. For hockey. Sometimes I'm afraid that you're so full of love that you will burst.”
Ilya does this thing with his hands whenever he's trying to carefully pick out his words. His fingers curl loosely and he flicks his wrist a couple of times, like he's writing out the sentence in his mind before he commits to saying it out loud.
"You think you need to be perfect all the time. You carry this burden, and it weighs you down, but you are so used to it that I don’t think you even notice." Ilya hesitates for a second before saying, "I love Yuna and David, they have been very good to me, but I think that they only make this weight heavier. Yuna encourages you to take on more and more, and she cannot see that you're drowning because she is always looking ahead."
A lump has formed in Shane's throat, filled with all the words he wants to use to defend his mom. She just wants what's best for him. She's worked so hard to turn him into the role model he is. Without her, Shane would be fumbling in the dark, still the best but not quite Canada's sweetheart in the way he is now.
None of those words make it past his lips. Shane never wanted to be a role model, or Canada's sweetheart, he just wanted to play hockey.
The internal struggle must make itself known somehow, because Ilya's softening even further. "I am not saying that they were bad parents. I am just saying that maybe they were more focused on coaching you, managing you as an athlete, than actually being there for you as their son. You are not the only Hollander who only talks about hockey. I think that you have been raised in a way that nothing else has existed in a very long time."
"But you, Shane Hollander, my Shane, are so much more than just a hockey player." Without even thinking, Shane goes to shake his head, because hockey is all that he’s ever been.
Ilya, of course, stops him before he can even start by grabbing his face with his hands, forcing Shane to nod his head up and down instead. “No, head should be moving like this. Because you should saying yes, I am Shane Hollander, and I build cottages from the ground up instead of just buying them like a normal person, and I start a charity for kids in the memory of my husband’s mother, and I am the favourite uncle of way too many little Pikes because I take the rules of all their games very seriously.”
The burning in Shane's eyes makes itself pointedly known, but he refuses to let the tears fall. It doesn't count as crying, something he's done far too much today already, if he can just hold it in.
Somehow, Ilya’s gaze softens impossibly further, and Shane watches as a blurry hand reaches out to trace a thumb under his eye. The tears spill out, but Ilya catches them, wiping them away with so much care, and then Shane just can't bring himself to stop.
It's a relief, though, to let the tears stream freely down his face without straining himself to hold them in.
"See?" Ilya asks gently. "You do not have to hold everything in all the time, not when I'm here. You can just... let me carry it, for a little.” A mischievous grin breaks across his face, and he says, “I am very strong. I work out a lot.”
And Shane laughs. God, it feels so good to laugh. It’s one of the things he loves most about Ilya. No matter what’s happening, no matter what Shane’s brain might be saying to him, Ilya can always find a way to make him laugh.
Some of the tension unwinds from his shoulders, and Ilya beams like that’s all he’d wanted to see.
“I love you.” Shane’s said it so many times already, but the feeling is so overwhelming that he can feel it leaking out of his pores. He needs to say it as many times as possible so that this wonderful man in front of him knows that he means it just as much every single time.
Ilya smiles, thumb tracing a familiar path across his freckles as he says, “I know, I love you too. So much.” He taps pointedly against Shane’s temple. “Which is why you need to believe me when I say that I will love you, with or without hockey. I will love you after we retire. I will love you when we are up at three in the morning, exhausted and gross, because our baby is crying.”
“I didn’t fall in love with perfect Shane Hollander,” Ilya says, pressing a kiss to Shane’s brow. “I fell in love with sweet, competitive, kind of bitchy Shane Hollander. With the Shane Hollander who folds his clothes before sex and scrolls Zillow whenever we travel for games. I fell in love with the Shane Hollander who worries all the time and still trusts me to do the grocery shopping when he doesn’t want to deal with people.”
With every word, Ilya’s voice grows more impassioned, the hand not cradling his face gesticulating wildly in the air. “I fell in love with you, Shane. All of you. And I know that just this is not going to fix everything, but I need you to know that you do not have to be perfect Shane Hollander for me, and you shouldn’t have to be perfect Shane Hollander for your parents.”
There’s clearly more that Ilya wants to say on that topic, but he visibly makes the decision to table that discussion for another day, which Shane appreciates. He doesn’t think that he could handle talking about that without experiencing another full-blown crisis.
“There is so much more to you than being hockey Jesus, and I know that everyone who loves you would not hesitate to agree.” Ilya’s tone leaves no room for argument. “And everything else you are worried about? We will handle that together. We can make a plan for talking with your parents—which you will be doing—and I will sit right beside you the entire time.”
Shane can tell that Ilya’s running out of steam, he is too, so he doesn’t fight it when Ilya rests their foreheads together. The closeness, the support, is something they both need right now.
“Just promise me that you will come talk to me if you ever feel like this again,” Ilya whispers into the scant space between them. “Do not wait until it builds up and drags you under, okay? I hate seeing you like this, and it is never a burden to me to be there for you.”
It’s those final words that wind around Shane’s heart and squeeze, because that’s what all this is about, isn’t it? He’s cultivated his life, his image, his personality, so that he wouldn’t be a burden on anyone. It was easier to make himself small rather than take up space. Because, if he stood up tall then people would have to look at him, and Shane was convinced that they would never like what they saw.
But here was Ilya, bold and radiant and beautiful, loving everything Shane was even when Shane himself could not.
Shane didn’t know what he’d done to deserve him, but he was determined to spend the rest of his life proving that he did.
It's that determination that gives Shane the motivation to hold Ilya's hands in his own and bring them to his lips, kissing them reverently before whispering, “I promise.”
Things weren't fixed, they probably wouldn't be for a long time, but it was a step in the right direction. Shane would try.
Ilya’s face breaks out into a beautiful, relieved smile, and Shane knows that it was all worth it. The pain and the embarrassment and the shame of opening up, of letting Ilya help him, he’d do all that and more to get Ilya to look at him that way.
“Okay,” Ilya whispered. “Okay, good.”
They sit there for a moment, taking each other in, and Shane can’t shake the feeling that Ilya’s assessing him, trying to figure out if he can handle whatever it is Ilya so clearly wants to say.
Shane must pass the test, because Ilya says, “I need you to know that I am proud of you, Shane. I am proud of you every single day. The life that we live, it is scary, it has not been easy to get here, and there are a lot of people out there who would love to see us fail, but you wake up every morning and you choose us all over again. You choose to win, to show everyone that you are strong, and that you have earned this, because you,” Ilya places a hand over Shane’s heart, “are Shane fucking Hollander. And that means more than hockey. More than sponsorships and diets and cars, because it is you.”
At the end of his speech, Ilya leans forward and captures Shane’s lips in a slow, passionate kiss. Shane tries to pour everything he’s feeling into that kiss, all the love and gratitude and relief that words would never be able to adequately express. He needs Ilya to know, and, by the way Ilya grins against his lips, he got the message loud and clear.
When they separate, Shane’s throat is still tight, but Ilya doesn’t ask him to say anything. Instead, they go about their evening routine in comfortable silence, both of them much too exhausted to consider staying up.
Twin sighs settle in the space between them when they fall into bed, Ilya easily tucking Shane against him and holding him close. Holding him like he doesn’t ever want to let Shane go. Which is lucky, because Shane doesn’t want to let him go either.
The certainty settles under his skin that, no matter what happens, if Shane plays hockey until he’s fifty or if he’s taken out by a career-ending injury next season, he’ll always have this. It will always be him and Ilya. Together.
Everything was going to be okay.